Owen was losing his nerve and his chance. “When she said that about the eels,” he forced himself to continue, “I started to feel . . . strange.” He blinked rapidly.
He had the king’s attention again. “You did? Like another vision?” He seemed eager, almost hungry, when Owen nodded.
“Ratcliffe!” the king barked, gesturing for him to hurry over. Ratcliffe frowned with annoyance and made his way to them. Evie beamed with pride at Owen.
“Go on!” the king implored, his voice low and coaxing, his eyes shining with interest.
“It was like a dream, except I was awake,” Owen said. “I was an eel. And there was a hook in my mouth, like a fisherman’s hook, tugging me out of the water. I was wiggling and trying to get free, but the hook kept pulling. It hurt. And when I came out of the water, it wasn’t a fisherman at all. A rat was holding the pole. A grinning rat.” Owen swallowed, feeling relief that he had gotten it out.
The king stared at him in confusion. “That is a strange thing, Owen. Peculiar.” He glanced at Ratcliffe for clarification.
Ratcliffe shrugged, totally perplexed. “I make no sense of it. The boy doesn’t like eels. Not many do. Did you know the second king of Ceredigion died from eating too many eels?”
The king’s expression hardened. “That was lampreys, you fool.” He turned back to Owen and patted his shoulder. “You don’t have to eat them. Have Liona make you a roast capon or another fish that you prefer.”
Owen nodded, very hungry now, and grabbed a muffin from the table. It had little seeds in it and reminded him of the one he had eaten while riding into the city for the first time.
Evie butted into his shoulder, just slightly, as she stood next to him by the table. She gazed across the assortment of food, carefully decided, and then chose a pear.
“You did it,” she whispered, not looking at him.
He wanted to collapse under the table in relief.
The king’s sharp voice echoed in the hall. “What?”
All eyes turned to him. The queasy-looking man Owen had noticed earlier was standing by the king and Ratcliffe. He looked like he had just said something.
Then, in unison, the king and Ratcliffe turned and looked at Owen.
I’ve learned this above all else. You must bind men to you by benefits, or else make sure of them in some other way. Never reduce them to the alternative of having either to destroy you or perish themselves. I fear that Ratcliffe, in his efforts to secure his master’s throne, may be risking it all the more. There is never anything more tenuous than peace.
—Dominic Mancini, Espion of the Palace Kitchen
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Loyalty
Ankarette had predicted, correctly as it turned out, that the king would immediately assemble his councillors after such a miraculous demonstration of Owen’s gift. So when the men started to gather in the king’s council chambers, Owen and Ankarette were already poised by the spyhole in the secret door, ready to watch and to listen. She held a finger to her lips, warning him to be absolutely still, but her eyes gleamed with the thrill of bearing silent witness to such a meeting. Owen shifted so his legs wouldn’t get too tired as he watched and listened.
He recognized some but not all of those in attendance, and Ankarette quietly whispered in his ear whenever someone he did not know entered the room. The king had called in Ratcliffe, Horwath, and his chancellor Catsby, along with two religious officials representing the sanctuaries. In the months following his victory at Ambion Hill, he had not yet replenished all of the council seats, Ankarette explained quietly. Owen’s father, for example, had not been restored to his previous role and was awaiting his fate in his own lands. The council was small and getting smaller.
Some of the council members had seated themselves, but the king was pacing, keen displeasure and more unnameable emotions playing in his eyes.
“Everyone is here, Your Grace,” Ratcliffe announced, after shutting the door. There was a wary look on his face.
“You are wondering why I’ve summoned you,” Severn said in a low voice. He cast his gaze over the men. “You all look like men who are about to be shoved into the waters. Are you feeling guilty? Did any of you know of this news before it arrived?”
There was a moment of awkward silence. “Know of what news, my lord?” said the man Ankarette had identified as Catsby.
“Tell them,” the king said gruffly, waving a hand at Ratcliffe. That directive delivered, he turned away from the council and started to slip his dagger in and out of its sheath.
Ratcliffe assumed an authoritative posture and advanced to the head of the table. He planted his palms on the gleaming, waxed surface. “News from Southport. We have John Tunmore in custody.”
There were startled gasps around the room. Only Horwath, who was always unflappable, did not react with open shock.
“How could he . . . ?”
“The knave!”